


Funeral

by Bloke_with_a_beard



Series: What happened to Nancy Blackett? [1]
Category: Swallows and Amazons - Arthur Ransome
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-01
Updated: 2014-09-01
Packaged: 2018-02-15 18:13:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,861
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2238594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bloke_with_a_beard/pseuds/Bloke_with_a_beard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set in May 1944: the Swallows, Amazons and D's meet up for the first time since the end of the Sea Bear cruise, but for all the wrong reasons.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Funeral

Ruth, just seven days old and very much the youngest of the family, whimpered in her sleep and screwed up her little pink face. Realising a squall was coming, her mother lifted her from the pram and propped her on her shoulder, amazed to find that the move barely waked the little girl. Moments later a satisfying burp broke the solemn silence of the chapel, and Ruth settled back into quiet sleep again.

"Wind?" John whispered, looking across at his wife.

"Always against her!" came the enigmatic reply.

A second, more liquid burp followed the first, and a cloth moved in the edge of John's vision as his sister reached forward from the pew behind and wiped the thin dribble of milk from her sister-in-law's back.

"Thanks Mavis," he murmured.

"Plenty of practice!" she softly replied, glancing down at where little Edward slept soundly in his crib, tucked in between her and Richard.

Their whispered conversation was cut short as the organ sprang to life and the tiny Lakeland chapel filled with the sounds of solemn music. Six uniformed WRNS marched slowly in through the west door, the all too recognisable flag-draped shape carried upon their shoulders, and with measured tread bore their burden down the aisle toward the bier at the front.

John felt his wife sag against him and slid a comforting arm around her shoulders. Funerals were inevitably sad, but the funeral of your big sister would always be infinitely more so. And the death of Peggy's big sister, the larger-than-life, impetuous, adventurous and indisputable leader of her childhood years, would leave an enormous hole in the lives of all of them.

　

An absolutely enormous hole: one none of them had looked for, thought possible or expected in any way.

A hole so big, so deep, so wide that it was inconceivable: a loss so great as to be irreconcilable. She was gone. The wild one, the adventurous one, the unique one: their friend, their unpredictable, loveable, irrepressible friend. Gone.

Long ago it felt now, when they had sailed small boats up and down the big lake and had dreamed dreams of distant oceans, when they had walked open hillsides and dreamed of exploring trackless wastes. When they had camped on small islands and hillside valleys, skated frozen tarns and searched abandoned copper-mines. When separately and together they had unintentionally sailed the North Sea, very intentionally explored tidal marshes, and against their better nature hidden from unwelcome relatives. They had last all been together on that Hebridean cruise, but after that stupid argument as the cruise ended they had gone their own ways, and had never all met together since, not till now.

Expect that now they were not all together, and never would be again.

In the years since then John had progressed steadily if unspectacular through school, then college, and had only really come into his own at the Dartmouth naval training college. On board ship he had shone, and to his utter amazement had passed out top of his year with a certainty of naval command in the years ahead. Susan had channelled her organising and caring skills into caring for others, and almost accidentally become a nurse. A very good nurse, as long as she remembered not to treat patients many years older than her as if they were her younger siblings.

Mavis had reverted to the name bestowed upon her at her christening, tried hard to be like her oh-so-capable big sister, failed, and found herself working in the office of a machinery importer, dealing with correspondence from and then phone calls to their mainly Germany suppliers. And Roger had found his niche tinkering with the engines of ever bigger, faster, more advanced boats, as an apprentice at Thornycroft.

Bridget had followed on behind, as the youngest always has to, and watched her older siblings carve out positions in the world of work while she still spent her days at school – though at least she now had their mother mainly to herself in the holidays.

Dorothea had tried again and again to get her stories published, and had a whole box full of rejection slips to show for it. So now she wrote adventure stories for her own pleasure in the evenings and at weekends, and wrote technical reports for an archaeological publishing house to put food on her lonely, single table. Richard had seriously considered followed in his parents footsteps, but his tutors at University had been quick to spot his greater mathematical and scientific potential, and he had ended up working in the ever expanding field of electrical and mechanical research.

Then he had needed to obtain a copy of some recently published German research, but found the deteriorating political situation prevented the purchase of a copy through the usual routes. A colleague had suggested trying an alternative route, and put him onto an import business with many overseas contacts . . . and the letter he received from Miss Mavis Walker, assistant under-secretary to the head of the German division, also included a very unofficial enclosure enquiring whether he was the Richard Callum who knew something of the _Scarab_.

One thing lead to another, and eighteen months later Miss Mavis Walker lost her job when all imports from Germany were stopped at source, and then another two years after that had become Mrs Richard Callum. War, assorted moves, a still-birth and a successful pregnancy later, she was living in a rented house in the obscure north Buckinghamshire town of Bletchley, doing even more obscure things that fully utilised her knowledge of German, while Richard helped develop strange electro-mechanical devices he was not allowed to talk about to anyone, but which clicked, whirred, and if all went well reduced seeming garbage to understandable German.

Peggy had achieved only minimal success in her schooling, drifted from boring job to boring job, considered joining the Navy, been turned down, gone back to her Lakeland haunts for a while – and met John when he sailed a hired dingy up the Amazon River to see if Beckfoot still looked the same. Their friendship of old had never been intense, but once it was renewed it blossomed and grew with a life of its own: a life that showed in the gold band on her finger and the sleeping babe between them.

But as for Nancy . . . . . Nancy had no hope of ever following a conventional path through life. She had ridden motorcycles, learned to fly gliders, tested speedboats, tried sheep farming, broken the hearts of at least three suitors, driven her mother to distraction – and been the first in line on the first possible day to join the WRNS. But even there she had rebelled against Naval discipline, excelled in all things naval and practical, and met her match in the Officer who commanded her section at the Greenwich base.

"Wren Blackett!" Chief Officer Gilchrist had fumed at her too many times to remember. "You could be an amazing asset to His Majesty's Navy – but only if you will do things correctly and not keep heading off in your own ways. Do you not see what the possibilities are? Can you not understand that we are trying to further your career with us? If only you will let us give you a good report you will find opportunities for all the adventure you could ever want – but if you force us to fail you those chances will not be there!"

Nancy eventually heeded the warnings, knuckled down, achieved that good report, champed at the bit as she progressed through the necessary system, and found herself in paradise. Not many Wrens got called on as emergency despatch-riders, hammering through the night on huge motor cycles, but Nancy did – twice. Not many Wrens were complimented by senior brass-hats on their ability to bring a supply-tender alongside a moving patrol boat without the slightest trace of a bump, but Nancy did that too.

And as the War ground slowly on, she found herself a Leading Wren, and then a Chief Wren, and discovered all the adventure she longed for in helping keep the navy's small ships functioning at full efficiency. She was the depot's expert on Oerlikon guns, as well as being a deadly shot with one, and could keep a Bofors working and firing long after it should have been decommissioned. But it was the urgent need to clear a jammed gun on a visiting boat that had triggered the events, the chain of events, the tragic chain of events that saw them all meeting once more in the little Lakeland chapel that day.

It was one of the new, really fast a motor gun boats, a visiting boat, one from the 'hush, hush' base. It had been out to the firing range and come back with a jam on the port Oerlikon. Nancy had been sent to fix it, but she had barely stripped it down when an urgent signal came, and they were away while she still worked to reassemble everything. As a Wren, as a woman, she should not have been on board when they sailed on active duty – but she was.

The boat never returned.

 

So now they were all gathered: the first time they had all been together since the _Sea Bear_ sailed home: the five, the two and now only the one, with three of the six friendly natives, and already two youngsters to swell the crew. Such a gathering ought to have been a joyful occasion. But to meet at a funeral? And not just a funeral but Nancy's funeral? No, that was not what any of them wanted, not a situation any of them had even contemplated. Nancy was a survivor! Nancy was impossible sometimes, irrepressible always – and indestructible they all thought . . . . and now Nancy was dead.

The six WRNS came to a halt, turned, and at a quietly spoken instruction lowered the coffin into place. The vicar stood up and looked out across the small congregation, pausing to acknowledge Peggy, Molly, James and little Ruth – Nancy's only four living blood-relatives. The assorted Walkers and Callums he knew less well, but Mr Stedding, Mrs Braithwaite, the Jacksons, the Dixons, the long-suffering Doctor, even Constable Sammy Lewthwaite were all familiar to him.

The bearers in their dark blue best uniforms and the three accompanying officers knew Nancy in a way he could not, and it was right that they were there too. It was right that all those gathered were there: people whose lives Nancy had touched. People who had known Nancy – some known her all her life, some just for a few months. People with whom Nancy had laughed, with whom she had tangled. People she had bullied, cajoled or persuaded into her madcap schemes. People who had reason to detest her, to despair of her even – but who beyond doubt also respected her, loved her, and had now gathered to honour her.

A greeting was given, a hymn sung, prayers were said and in a very subdued Uncle Jim sort of voice Captain Flint read the lesson. Then the vicar arose from his stall and came to stand before the coffin as it rested on the bier.

"My friends," he said, "Nancy's friends, her family, her Superior Officers and her colleagues in arms: Paul reminds us in his letter to Timothy that we brought nothing into this world and can take nothing with us when we leave it. I would never wish to question holy writ, but I do think sometimes that his statement may need a little qualifying.

"That our dear sister Nancy brought nothing into the world is certain: it is the statement that she has taken nothing with her from it that I would wish to speak upon. Goods, monies, possessions she has certainly not taken . . . none of us can. But our love, or respect, our good wishes – those she has taken with her. Taken in good measure, and standing here today I can feel them being given to her still. And something more than that she has taken: something unquantifiable, indescribable: something uniquely Nancy. I fear none of us will be able to fully define what she has taken from us, taken with her, but that it has been taken is written large across all of your faces.

"In each of your lives there is now a hole. A large, Nancy shaped hole. A hole that will not be easy to fill: a hole I am not certain we should even attempt to fill. Nancy is gone from us, but gone in a way of which she would be proud: a way of which you also should be proud. Nancy would never have wished to go quietly. And after knowing her for so many years I feel I can state with certainty that she would not have wished to live the life of an invalid either, not even the life of an honourably wounded ex-service woman.

"With Nancy, life was all or nothing: half-measures never were a part of her make-up. So to give her life in the way she did is in so many ways only to be expected of her. To be setting an example, to be out there at the front, in the place of greatest danger – that is where Nancy would always strive to be. That is where Nancy was at the dreadful moment. That is why we are gathered here to honour her just as much as we are to remember her.

"We will miss her: we all will miss her. We will be sad and naturally we will grieve. Life truly will never be the same, not for any one of us. Nancy touched our lives – and Nancy is gone. But I tell you this: at the risk of being censured by my Bishop I will tell you this. I truly believe that if there are adventures to be had in Heaven, if there are boats there to sail, mountains to climb, friends to make, lives to touch – then our dear friend Nancy will be in there with the best of them, and probably somewhere near the front.

"Barbecued Billygoats, as our dear Nancy would have said. Her mortal remains may be here in front of us, but who could ever hope to keep her indomitable spirit in a wooden box!"

". . . . . Forasmuch as it has pleased Almighty God of His great mercy to take unto Himself our dear sister Nancy . . . earth to earth, dust to dust . . . Blessed are the dead who die in the Lord . . . not as men without hope . . . raised at the Last day . . . . Amen."

 

 

Thud.

Thud.

Sods of wet Lakeland earth landed hollowly on the wooden boards of the coffin, and Peggy wept. Wept openly, honestly, knowing that she was surrounded by others who fully understood her tears.

 

Gone.

Gone!

How could Nancy be gone? But she was.

Gone.

The Vicar at the church-yard gate. The journey back to Beckfoot. The clear May sunshine across the beloved lake. Friends. Hands to shake. Condolences to acknowledge. All the things, the necessary things, the expected things, the things that had to be done, that were done, and that eventually helped to cloak the emptiness with convention.

A blur. Visions glimpsed through tears. Moments remembered from a sea of sadness.

　

"Good old Cookie!" Peggy sighed, a ghost of a smile on her face as the familiarity of home brought things back into focus again. "Good old Cookie! You've done us proud again, even on rations!"

"There's things you can find that never need a ration book," Mrs Braithwaite murmured quietly, a knowing smile on her age-lined face. "It all depends on who you know – and on why you're asking. There's a mort of good folk round here as wanted to do their bit to give Miss Nancy a good send-off."

"I don't suppose for a moment you'd say who they were if I asked," John said. "But when you see them again, as I've no doubt you will, please do give them our grateful thanks."

"I'll do that for you, Mister John," the old cook said. "Do that and willingly – though folks weren't doing this to get a bit of thanks from anyone. They were doing what they could for Miss Nancy, and for Mrs Blackett: and for you too, Miss Peggy my love. And they all wanted to know if you was still doing alright, what with the little one coming at the same time and all that."

Peggy looked down at the now peacefully sleeping figure in the crib beside her. "Little Ruth seems blissfully unaware of it all," she said. "And she was born three hours before we got the telegram so her timing was perfect."

"I'm surprised at you calling her Ruth though," the cook went on. "After the way your dear sister so hated the name."

"We've given her the options!" John said with a smile. "We've called her Ruth Nancy, so she can decide for herself which name she wants when she's older. It was the least we could do, and with timing like that we both felt we should keep Nancy's name alive. But if she takes the least bit after her namesake then I expect she'll finish up being Ruth on the good days and Nancy on the rumbustious ones!"

　

"Oh Molly!" Mary Walker said as she poured fresh tea into the cup for her. "Oh Molly – it must be hard, loosing her like that."

"I'd be lying if I said it wasn't," Mrs Blackett replied, grateful for an understanding ear from her old friend. "It was never easy when Bob went, and now Nancy's gone too it'll not get any easier. The Kaiser took my husband, and Hitler took my daughter. I do hope there's no more wars with Germany: Peggy's all I've got now."

"And little Ruth!" Mrs Walker murmured, looking across to where Dorothea had borrowed the basket and was showing the sleeping tot to her parents.

"Yes, and little Ruth," Mrs Blackett sighed. "Bless her! But what a name to be saddled with! What a reputation to live up to!"

"Yes: I doubt anyone could live up to that measure," Mary said. "But I would hope no one expects her to be the same as her Aunt. She will need to be herself: if she does turn out like Nancy that will surely be an added blessing."

"Blessing?" Molly said with a small smile. "Maybe, sometimes, but surely a trial too! I despaired of my eldest daughter times beyond measure – but she came out right in the end."

"They often do!" Mary said, looking around the room to find her five offspring. John was standing next to Peggy, his Naval uniform as spotless as always, the extra bands still new and shiny on his sleeves. "Captain of a Destroyer now! Following in his father's footsteps as fast as he can."

"You must be so proud," Molly murmured.

"Oh, I am," Mary replied, but then added, "And worried too sometimes! He tries so hard to live up to his Daddy's standards, but I fear there's too much of me in him for him ever to enjoy the responsibility. Ted was a natural at command, but there are times when I think John cares too much for the ordinary ratings."

"But do they respect him for it?" Molly asked. "If I know John, I'd think they do – and if they respect their officer then they'll follow him anywhere. That's what Bob always said – and his men followed him to the end."

"Passchendaele wasn't it?" Mary asked.

"Yes, Passchendaele," Molly sighed. "September 1917. Straight into a machine-gun nest they said was destroyed. But he was leading from the front you know, and his men were following him: it never mattered that he was just a sergeant. He led, and they followed. Yes, you're right though . . . he'd have been proud of his daughter, going the way she did – however it was."

"They haven't said, have they?" Mary asked softly.

"No – classified information," Molly said. "I do think that's cruel . . . but I suppose it has to be like that. Citation of Honour, but no details given. Died in action against enemy forces: bravery in excess of all expectations for a Chief Wren. And that's all I'll know: that's all any of us will know at least till this war is over – and maybe not even then."

　

"So what are you up to these days then young Titty?" Jim Turner asked as he sat his large body down next to Mavis and Richard, and leaned forward in his creaking chair to look at little Edward as he played with a toy dog on the floor. "Or should that be Mavis? I never know what to call any of you now, and no one ever tells me anything about what you're all doing, not even about my favourite niece’s activities."

"Captain Flint!" Titty replied. "You should be ashamed of yourself! I wrote to you only the other week and I listed off everything I could of what all of us were doing."

"Did you my dear?" he replied innocently. "Must be my age catching up with me! You know, I can't remember a word of what you must have said."

Titty looked across at her husband and they smiled to each other. "Lying!" Dick mouthed, and Titty nodded. "You'll have to try harder than that!" she said. "There's too much of a twinkle in your eye for me to believe a word you're saying. I know you're longing to find out what Dick and I do, but we can't tell you. We simply can't. It's too important. I don't know when we'll be allowed to say about it: we may never be. So please don't ask us – please?"

"Oh alright then!" he replied with a theatrical sigh. "But can you at least remind me of what the others are doing these days? I'm sure you really did write to me, but I know my ancient memory's fading."

"John's the Captain of HMS Derwent," Titty said. "He took command only last month and he's one of the youngest destroyer Captains in the Navy. Susan's the Matron at a children's hospital in Shrewsbury and thoroughly enjoying being mother to dozens of evacuees.

"Yes you are!" Titty broke off to say as Susan caught here eye and frowned across the room at her.

" I can't tell you more of what Dick and I are doing," Titty continued, "But Roger's the chief civilian engineer at the MTB base outside Southampton, and Bridget's still doing her training in the Wrens."

"You're a busy lot between you!" Jim said. "I'm sure your parents must be proud of you."

"Mummy says we're all doing our bit like we should," Titty smiled, "And Daddy says he knew we weren't duffers. Yes, I think they are both pleased with the way we're following Daddy's footsteps, each in our own way. "

"And how about your family, Dick?" Jim asked. "What's Dorothea doing? And your parents?"

"Dot's been putting her language skills to work," Dick replied. "She's writing handbooks for the Ministry of Information at the War Office: handbooks people can actually read, understand and remember. She does other things too but I think they're a bit like what we do really – I can't say anything much more than that. Dad's on the ARP service at Cambridge and Mum's joined the WRVS and is coping with three evacuees, but they're both getting too old now to be called on for much more. How about you? Are you being asked to do anything much up here?"

"No – I'm too old for that myself now," Jim said. "And there's nothing much gets bombed around here so there's no need for more in the ARPS. I help Molly with her city kids sometimes, and I grow vegetables when my back lets me, but otherwise I'm a gentleman of leisure. Mixed Moss went out of print last year you know, but it earned me enough that I'm still reasonably comfortable, and the old houseboat's not yet sunk so I can amuse myself there too."

"How's the mine doing?" Dick asked. "I can't see Timothy around now, but is he still busy up there? And what about Slater Bob? Is he still there?"

"Dear old Bob passed away a couple of years ago," Jim said. "One of his young nephews has taken over as our Mine Captain in his place. The main seam on High Tops is worked out now though: gave us some beautiful ore for years but the seam faulted badly and we've never found the rest of that lode. Most of the work these days is on the Grey Screes shaft: we're down thirty fathoms and still returning a healthy tonnage most months.

"Of course, the price of copper's good at the moment," he continued. "Saves imports too, so they're taking everything we can supply. They keep talking about reopening some of the old Ling Scar workings too, but most of them are too deep underwater to be serious propositions."

"What – the ones we went through that day?" Titty asked with a shudder.

"No – too many falls in those tunnels now," Jim said. "There's been another fall at the western end since then, and the main run's blocked at the east end too. Old Bob took a bit too much slate out of his cavern there and the whole hillside's covered in sink-holes to show for it."

Their reminiscences and updates came to a sudden halt as the telephone rang in the hallway.

"I'll get it Molly," Jim said as he heaved himself to his feet.

"Captain John – it's for you," he came back to say. "But it sounds awfully official."

John was out of the room for far longer, and he came back with a sombre look on his face. "Is Rattletrap still working?" he asked. "I'm sorry my love, but my leave's just been cancelled. I've got to report to Portsmouth tomorrow, so I need to be off to the station as soon as I can."

The phone rang again as he spoke, so he went to see what the Admiralty had forgotten to tell him.

He came back moments later: "It's for you this time Mavis," he said. "HMS Pembroke they said."

"Oh!" Titty said, catching Dick's eye as she hurried out to take the call.

Jim and John went out to see if Rattletrap III, the current Blackett car, had air in her tyres and petrol in her tank, and Roger came to see if the engine needed adjusting at all. They were still checking her when Dick came out to find them.

"Titty and I have got to go south too," he said with a very sombre look. "Urgent summons for her so I know I'll be needed as well. Will there be space for all of us to fit in or do we need to make two runs to the station?"

"We'll get you all in," Jim said. "She's bigger than the old Rattletrap was, so there'll be room. You've none of you got much luggage anyway, have you?"

"Only the things for little Edward," Dick said. "He needs more than the two of us together at this age!"

The mood of party had changed when the four of them went back inside. It was no longer a gathering in memory of Nancy. It was no longer a time for old friends to reminisce. There was an air of resignation, and of quiet busyness, intermingled with some very large but unasked questions. John had been summoned to his ship. Titty had been summoned to her base. And both in the space of a few minutes. Why? Every one wanted to know: why? But no one asked. In many ways they didn't need to.

The balloon was going up. It had to be. Maybe not today. Probably not tomorrow. But soon. Very soon.

All the quiet preparation, the slow but vast build up the whole nation knew was happening: even as far north as their beloved Lakeland, everyone knew. It was happening! The big event. The push. Whisper it softly – _the invasion was starting!_

"I'm sorry Peggy love," John said as he kissed his wife farewell. "I had hoped to be with you longer . . . "

"I know," Peggy said with a wry smile. "I'm going to sound like your mother soon – blooming Lords of the Admiralty!"

"I'm sorry love . . !" John started to say again.

"Hush dear!" Peggy said. "If I marry a Naval Officer in wartime what do I expect? You go and command your ship, and do what ever they want you to do – and then come back to me and little Ruth. We'll be here waiting for you, and I'll be far safer up here than if I followed you southward. Mother and Uncle Jim will look after us: you go and look after your ship. Just . . . just . . . "

"Yes dear?" John asked.

"If you see the bastards that killed my sister, you make bloody sure you sink them for me!" Peggy said with unusual vehemence.

"I will, my love!" John smiled grimly. "Oh, I will!"


End file.
